Authors: Laura McNeill
She was only twenty, and to make her parents happy, she tried community college at the College of Coastal Georgia, finally cobbling together enough credits for an associate's degree in computer science. Her sister, of course, had finished her bachelor's degree, had a toddler, and was busy making grand plans to go to med school.
It was all so easy for Allie. Even as a single mother, Allie made it all look effortless.
Before Arrendale, it was still true.
1994
Towels tucked under their arms, Emma and Allie wandered behind their parents down the familiar squares of sidewalk. Her mother carried a luscious fruit salad in a chilled silver bowl. Her father swung a small cooler as he walked.
The neighborhood party at the Hicks's home was well underway when the Marshalls arrived, the scent of barbeque sauce and charcoal briquettes wafting through the warm air. Her parents immediately struck up a conversation with the hosts. Allie ran over to talk to Morgan and the other teenagers, while ten-year-old Emma hung back, taking it all in. A pool sparkled at the far corner of the expansive yard. It was long and curved like a tropical oasis, with pink oleander trees edging the water.
Emma glanced around. Her parents were still talking. Morgan was giggling with Allie. Her sister was smiling and laughing. Emma wandered closer to the pool, over the manicured lawn, onto
the Pennsylvania blue stone deck. She plopped down on her towel, stuck her feet in the water, and kicked, watching the droplets arc and fall.
“You're not supposed to be by the pool, Emma,” Morgan Hicks announced.
Startled, Emma jumped and whirled.
Allie stood next to Morgan, looking uncomfortable.
It
was
Morgan's house. Emma glanced over to where the adults were standing. None of them looked the least bit concerned. They had drinks in their hands and were laughing at something Morgan Hicks's father had just said.
“Come on,” Allie pleaded, waving her hand back toward the house.
Morgan glared and took a menacing step forward.
“Why should I?” Emma argued back.
“Because my mom said.” Morgan reached down and grabbed for Emma's hand.
The motion threw both girls off balance, sending Emma straight into the deep end.
For the longest ten seconds of her short life, Emma thrashed and pulled to get to the surface, making no headway. She paused and looked up, seeing Allie's face distorted above the ripples of the water. Staring. Motionless. Waiting.
Fear swallowed Emma. Allie was going to let her drown. She was Morgan's friend. She would take her side. Pretend it was an accident.
Like air bubbles to the surface, a million awful ideas floated skyward and burst.
With a splash, her sister and Morgan jumped in. Their feet hit the bottom of the pool. Each girl took one of Emma's elbows and pushed off from the pool floor, kicking up hard, dragging Emma to the side. Coughing and sputtering, Emma clung to the edge. Her shoes, tiny and yellow, remained at the bottom.
There was a rush of frenzied activity, shouts, and panic. Legs and arms, hands reaching. Her parents pulled her out, dried her face and hair, hugged and kissed her a hundred times. Someone brought dry clothes. A drink of water.
Emma dozed on her father's shoulder on the way home. Sometime while she slept, the owner of the local newspaper called.
Emma found out later that a reporter came to her parents' house and interviewed Allie. The writer called Allie and Morgan heroes; they'd saved Emma's life. It was front-page news the next morning.
The article, Emma noted, explained nothing about what happened in the seconds before she'd plunged into the pool. That her sister had tried to coax her away, that Morgan Hicks had grabbed her hand. How Morgan had deliberately pushed Emma off balance and watched, expressionless, as she'd sunk to the bottom.
Emma was small and helpless. She was ten years old. And she could have died.
Her own parents, oblivious, rallied around popular opinion. Didn't question. Enjoyed the snippet of publicity. Counted their blessings, and went on with life.
It was then Emma knew.
One small voice, speaking the truth, wouldn't make a difference.
People accepted the stories they were told.
The community believed what it wanted to believe.
Allie might have forgotten the incident, but Emma never did. And she vowed that one day the tables would be turned, only she wouldn't be the one to jump in the pool to save her sister. In fact, she might be the one to give her a little push.
2016
“Sheriff?” Gladys Williams peered up at Lee Gaines through her bejeweled spectacles. She was dressed in a bright purple suit, accented with gold piping. Her hands were poised over the keyboard, a phone tucked between her chin and shoulder.
The space was small, poorly lit, and smelled like French vanilla coffee creamer, the kind June had liked so much. Thick files covered Gladys's desk next to an ancient PC. The far wall was covered with photographs, family pictures, and pinned with sayings like “God is Good” and “Trust in Him.”
“Come on in,” Gladys said. She replaced the phone on the receiver, swiveled in her chair, and motioned for him to sit.
Leading Chief by his leash, Gaines moved forward and removed his hat. “Thank you.” The sheriff perched awkwardly on the edge of the fabric-covered seat. Chief took his place next to his shined boots, long tongue lolling.
Gaines didn't pay unexpected visits to parole officers. He didn't like stirring up trouble, creating problems where there were none.
But Allie Marshall, if curiosity got the best of her, could cause all sorts of problems. Problems that needed to stay buried.
“I take it this isn't a social call? Something going on that I might want to know about?” Gladys adjusted her glasses and reached for a pen and pad of paper. Her lips, painted in a shade of fire-engine red, pursed tightly.
“Perhaps,” Gaines replied acidly. Chief's ears perked.
“All right,” Gladys answered, keeping her tone light, but her body remained on alert. She'd been in the business for twenty years; she had heard and seen it all.
“Has the Marshall girl been in?”
Gladys met Gaines's gaze. “Right on time. Her parents found her a place in town. She's looking for a job.”
A flicker of a frown crossed the sheriff's face. “How'd she seem?”
Gladys pushed back in her chair and crossed her long legs. “How they all seem. Shell-shocked, on edge, trying their best to appear normal when they're dropped back into the real world with a âfelon' label pasted on them the size of Atlanta.”
With a shrug of his broad shoulders, Gaines brushed off her prickly answer. “Hazard of the occupation.”
“She did her time,” Gladys answered evenly. “The state decided to release her early. She's free to live her life.”
“Free with some stipulations of parole.”
Gladys didn't flinch. She held his gaze, unblinking. “Of course,” Gladys answered, her voice matter-of-fact. “That's where I come in.” Her voice took on a bit of an edge. “And, again, so far Marshall's been fine. No red flags. No attitude. She's smarter than most, you know.”
“Not smart enough to avoid getting caught,” Gaines jabbed back. His arms tensed and his neck prickled. He was getting personal, letting Allie Marshall's release worry him. Not a thing had happened. Yet.
“Look.” Gladys took off her glasses, folded them, and placed
them to the side of her keyboard. “I know you and Coach Thomas were friends. Tight, like brothers. A lot of people in this town mourned his passing.”
“At least one didn't.” The words slipped out of Gaines's mouth before he could stop them.
Gladys kept her face serene, her hands clasped in her lap. “Sheriff, I've seen Allie Marshall's file. By all accounts, she verbally alleged to more than one person that Coach Thomas was abusing players. Then she wrote that editorial to the
Brunswick News
, and all hell broke loose.” She paused. “It's not for me to say, but despite all of that, something about what went down doesn't quite fit.”
Gaines stiffened. “I wouldn't be sharing those opinions around town. You won't be too popular.”
“I'm not in this job for the popularity,” Gladys said flatly.
Touché
, Gaines thought.
“All I am saying is that launching a public campaign, like the Marshall girl did, and asking for an investigation of a football coach don't jive with planning to kill someone in cold blood,” she added.
“When a person breaks from reality, it doesn't matter,” Gaines shot back. “Bundy was brilliant. Kaczynski too.”
“Serial killers?” Gladys said slowly, as if it was the first time she'd ever spoken the words.
“Who's to sayâ” Gaines stopped himself and began to sweat. He was taking this too far. And Gladys Williams, despite her professional demeanor, was getting suspicious.
“Well then, Sheriff, that would be for you and your men to investigate.” Gladys examined his face. “Is that what this visit is about? Has something happened?”
“Not yet.” Gaines stood quickly and slid the hat back on his head. Chief bounded to his feet. “Just keep a close eye,” he added gruffly.
Gladys nodded. “It's what I do.”
2016
In a bizarre way, to Emma, dinner out with Allie felt more like an awkward first date. A little weird. And very public.
They'd driven to a small restaurant with a view of the long wooden pier that stretched from the shore of St. Simons into the ocean. It was a perfect night for dining on the restaurant's porch, sipping sweet tea, and watching the fireflies dance across the grass.
As the hostess led them to their table, Emma kept her eyes forward as much as possible, hoping they'd make it through relatively unscathed. At first, there were a few unkind stares, some murmured comments and startled glances. Then a group of chattering, well-dressed, older women fell silent. Emma moved quickly, motioning for Allie to follow.
As Emma eased past the large gathering, she felt a nudge on the crook of her elbow. Out of habit, she turned her head.
Morgan Hicks's mother stood up, hands on her hips, a morose look of displeasure on her face. She'd aged twenty years or more in the last decade, with deep smoker's lines etched around her
downturned lips. Her throat jiggled with loose skin when she started to speak.
“Allie Marshall, you have no right to be here,” Morgan's mother began. The women's group watched with rapt attention. At nearby tables, other patrons shifted uncomfortably.
“Mrs. Hicks,” Allie replied quietly. “I'm sorry you feel that wayâ”
“After what you did to that poor man,” she scolded, raising her voice. “You dare to come back here?”
The dining area fell silent.
Allie opened her mouth to retort when Emma stalked back, grabbed Allie's arm, and half dragged her over to their table. “Are you crazy?” Emma breathed, pulling out her own seat and collapsing with a glare at her sister.
Allie sat down, red-faced. “What was I supposed to do?”
“Not talk. Try to ignore them.” Emma snatched the linen napkin from the table and shook it out. A server took their order, poured water, and disappeared. Emma glanced over Allie's shoulder at the table of women. “They're leaving anyway. Thank goodness.” She opened her menu and scanned the entrées. “I can't stand that woman. Or her daughter.”
“Morgan.” Allie stirred her ice water with a straw and then poked at the lemon slice.
“Yeah, that friendship didn't work out so well for you,” answered Emma with an arch of her brow.
Allie gazed at the horizon as the sky turned brilliant shades of magenta and crimson. “She did cut and run pretty fast.”
“Listen,” Emma said, waving over the server. “Forget Morgan. Let's try to enjoy dinner. Want to order?” She glanced at the menu and selected the first entrée she laid eyes on, shrimp fajitas with mango-lime slaw. Allie chose the pan-seared scallops with bacon, edamame, and grits.
“That sounds amazing.” Emma smiled at the server as she handed over her menu. After he disappeared into the kitchen, she shifted the conversation back to Allie. “So, should I ask how the job search is going?”
Allie shrugged and smiled. “Slow.”
“Any calls at all?”
“Nope. I tried at the flower shop, a bakery. Applied for every housekeeping, server, and restaurant job I could find in Brunswick,” she replied with a wry smile. “There was one position at a wedding dress shop, but I didn't even bother there.”
Emma wrinkled her nose.
“I always expected you'd get married.” Allie gave her sister a lopsided grin. “I'd hoped that one of us would.”
Emma shrugged. “It still could happen . . .”
“Come on,” Allie said. “That summer before I was supposed to leave for school? There was someone you really liked. You snuck out all of the time. I remember.” She gave Emma a knowing look.
“Oh, that?” Emma smiled. “It was nothing. Puppy love.” She offered a forced laugh.
“What about that former fiancé of yours?”
Emma glanced away and then back at her sister, who was watching her every move. “Former. Key word. After I broke it off, Mom was so freaked out, so disappointed, that she'd practically run away if I brought it up.”
Allie tucked her legs under her chair and leaned in. “I'm sorry.”
“Don't be. It was five years ago.” Emma wrinkled her nose and swirled the liquid inside her glass, creating a tornado of sweet tea and ice.
Her sister toyed with her napkin and settled it into her lap. “So, do you ever hear from him? Your ex?” She played with her salad,
rolling the tomato slices over, piercing Bibb lettuce and strands of unwieldy arugula with her fork.